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It happened in a flash. One moment Thomos Connington's hand was strangled around her wrist, the next he was on the floor, blood pouring from his nose as Lyonel stood above him.
For as wild as his temper could be, Alys had never been afraid of her husband. Any violence he enacted was for sport; hunting, tourneys, sparing, etc., all with their own rules of engagement. It was at that moment she remembered he was a soldier and the true meaning of his house words; Ours is the Fury.
He hulled the Connington back to his feet by the collar, shoving him up against the wall; teeth bared and fist bloodied.
"I'll fucking kill you for that," he growled, so low she knew it was not meant for show.
Connington's eyes widened. Whatever masculine pride drink had provided him vanished in an instant replaced with fear and sobriety.
"I'm sorry, my lord," he croaked out.
Lyonel either didn't hear him or didn't care, looking ready to make good on his threat.
He didn't get far, as the house guards quickly speared their way through the crowd. Two were on Lyonel, forcing him to drop the man as Connington's own entourage quickly made their way to his side.
"Get off me cunts!" he roared.
"What is the meaning of this?" Lord Baratheon proclaimed, stepping through the parting onlookers, Lord Connington right as his heals.
Thomos, for his part, tried to remain dignified, even as Alys could still see fresh blood dripping down his chin. "A slight disagreement, my lord."
"Fuck that! He put his hands on my wife!" Lyonel snarled, getting one arm free enough to point an accusatory finger in his direction.
Lord Baratheon's eyes flashed, before darting to Thomos' lord father.
It was plain enough for Alys to see. Her good-father may not like her, but he could not permit a slight on the Lady of Storm's End.
“Is this true?” Lord Connington said, directing a decidedly neutral tone toward his son.
Thomos pulled out a handkerchief, casually wiping away some of the blood. “I got a bit carried away.”
Thunder surged behind Lyonel’s eyes as he lunged forward. The guards buckled, but did not break their hold. It was likely the only thing keeping Thomos from premature meeting with the Stranger.
“Enough!” Lord Baratheon bellowed. “I’m sure, Ser Thomos did not mean to bring any harm to Lady Alys. Step forward girl.”
Her spine straightened as she suddenly felt the entire hall's eyes land on her. She had thought, or rather hoped, they had forgotten her.
She met Thomos’ eye, the smug defiance coming back into his features. He knew the knife’s edge she now found herself balanced upon. Lady or not, this was not her home.
Dornish whore. Wanton snake. Venomous bitch.
All wanted her to rise to this, to prove her to be a temperamental harlot their heir was bewitched into marrying. Lyonel was doing her no favors on that score.
She reminded herself this was not about her honor. It was simple pride, her husband’s and the house they now both represented. All of this had nothing to do with her.
"Ser Connington and I were having a rather heated discussion,” she said, swallowing her own pride in favor of diplomacy. “I believe drink took possession of his senses. My lord husband sought only to protect me from a perceived threat."
Lord Baratheon nodded in acknowledgement before turning his attention back to Thomos.
“Is this true?”
"That is the long and short of it,” he said, before bowing his head in her direction. “I apologize, my lady."
"All is forgiven, good ser."
"The fuck it is," Lyonel growled.
Lord Baratheon spun, his own towering form a warning. "Boy--"
"Lyonel," Alys cut in, placing a hand on his arm.
It wasn’t much, but it was just enough to jostle him out of his singular focus on Connington as he jerked his head toward her.
“He apologized,” she said, sternly. “That is enough.”
It wasn’t. They both knew it. But she stayed firm, keeping a grip on his arm and his gaze.
He did not move for a long moment, his jaw clenched so tight she thought his teeth might crack. Eventually, slowly, he let out a long breath through his nose, allowing some of the tension to leave his shoulders. His eyes flickered back to his father, giving a silent, if reluctant nod of acceptance.
"We are done here," Lord Baratheon announced before addressing Lord Connington. "You see to your son and I will see to mine."
The other lord all but sighed in relief. "Thank you, my lord."
He then reached over, wrenching Thomos away and back into the crowd.
A low murmuring broke out as circles of people gathered and made their way out of the hall. The entertainment was over and all knew better than to linger.
The guards, however, did not fully let go until Connington was well out of sight.
“Sorry, my lord,” one dared, as Lyonel shook him off.
“Fine, fuck off with you,” he bit back.
They did not need telling twice, each giving a short bow before rejoining his father.
Alys let go as well. With any luck she could slip away to her rooms and postpone Lord Baratheon’s inevitable scolding. He’d likely be too busy with Lyonel to bother with her tonight.
A hand stopped her, a small squeeze of her fingers keeping her in place.
She looked up to see Lyonel already watching her, his dark brows furrowed in a somber expression.
He cradled her wrist, allowing his fingers to run over her skin with all the care of one handling freshly spun glass.
She gave an involuntary wince.
It still throbbed. The excitement of the past handful of minutes was enough to distract her for a time. Now it came back with a vengeance.
"I should have cut his throat,” he murmured with a candidness that gave her pause.
She knew better than to take comfort in the words. His anger wasn’t for her. None of this was about her.
"You made him bleed enough,” she said, flippantly. “Besides, something like this was liable to happen. Were I a man, I would have had my teeth knocked out years ago."
To her surprise, Lyonel’s expression only sharpened. "Don’t make light of this. I don’t care if you told him his father fucks goats. Nobody has the right to touch you."
“It’s nothing lasting,” she insisted. "You defended your house, nobody will question its honor.”
“Fuck honor!” He reached out, cupping her face in his hand to ensure she could not look away from him. “You are my wife and nobody has the right to touch you. Do you understand?”
Her eyes widened, her whole body knocked off center by the intensity of his gaze. She was not sure what to make of the feeling of his thumb brushing against her cheek or the fluttering of her heart that accompanied it.
All the same, she felt herself nodding.
“Good,” he said, the dark cloud in his expression finally starting to break. “C’mon. He may be a useless cunt, but that maester will have a salve or something for you.”
He led her away, a protective hand resting at the small of her back.
Instinct told her to pull away. She was supposed to despise him. This care, if she could even call it that, was just part of the game; a temporary fancy at best and a deliberate manipulation at worst.
Another part of her, one she was not ready to face, savored the feeling. For the first time it seemed, someone thought that she, just herself, was worth guarding.